


A Rolling Stone Gathers No Moss

by thebigbengal



Category: Twin Peaks
Genre: Angst, Character Death, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mild Language, My Life My Tapes - related, Pre-Series, Twin Peaks Season/Series 02-03 Hiatus, and a touch of fluff, by the ending, like on or two "damns"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 14:57:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13079334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebigbengal/pseuds/thebigbengal
Summary: Going through life with a psychic wife and son can be both a blessing and a curse.





	1. Chapter 1

January, 1941 - New Mexico

 

The moonlight was her spotlight on a flowered dance floor, raven hair and pearly white skin gleaming under its glow. She swung and swayed like reeds on a river bank against calm ocean breezes, and he watched, drinking in every movement. Rod’s day had been a stressful cranial crash of college lecture halls, internships, and red pen marks on want ads that didn’t meet his criteria either in expertise or salary, but would have at least let him keep his apartment a touch longer; Emily was the perfect medicine for this. Sure, she had to drag him out of his room and down the campus lawn, deafening each complaint and objection with promises that fresh air will offer the perfect cure, but she certainly delivered on that. He decides to think twice before passing off Emily when she has an idea.

Rod did that a lot, upon their first few meetings, anyway. Emily was a strange creature on campus. Always spouting off a stream of consciousness, sharing her dreams, and springing with joy when she finds a connection between the two. Things he found annoying quickly grew to amuse him, then astonish and spark wonder in his eyes. There was a world hidden under this one that Emily could see and pranced from frame to frame within it, and he desperately wanted to take part. 

“I had a dream last night.”

Not unlike an excited puppy, she perked up and darted toward him, “Did you? Tell me!”

“Well, you were in it and so was I, and… we were together.”

“And?”

“And…” He’d hit a wall, and the words slipped off, “I’m sorry, it wasn’t a very pleasant dream.” The smile fell from her face made him feel all the more worse, “I don’t… exactly have pleasant dreams.” He felt foolish for thinking he could be on her level of spiritualism, her understanding of what lie beyond.

She took both of his hands in hers, which burned like warm coals in a fireplace, “No, no, no! That’s nothing to be ashamed of. Clearly something is worrying you. What happened next, if you can remember it?” She pressed delicately, empathizing with the anxiety a bad dream can give and not wanting to accidentally tear open something that was trying to heal.

He softened like putty in her hold, “There was a flash of light, a bomb. It wiped us all out. I’m sorry.” 

Her wool sweater wrapped around his face and neck, and a lipstick-caked mouth graced his ear, “It’s about the war, isn’t it?”

“The goddamn mad men. Building weapons like that? A necessity or not, a need to fight or not, it’s atrocious.”

“I know,” she melted in his coat, “I know.”

Now, they were reeds together on the bank, winds far more rapid, but they were protected in their own company and flexibility. Leaves scattered under indigo sky, and brushed their heads and back. Automobiles and motorcycles droned down the dirt roads, and faded beyond the horizon.

“We’re going to go some place, far away from here.” Rod never had this much confidence in his voice in his entire life. He embraced it. If there was ever a chance to stand up to someone, to the universe, to society, whichever, this was it.

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. I just know I want you there with me.”

Her form molding tighter around his told him she felt the same way. They let the moon engulf them.


	2. Chapter 2

July, 1945

 

He didn’t expect her giggles to be this loud, nor the entire diner to hear it, and it nearly shot a hole in his chest if it was meant to be a rejection to the proposal, but her fiery kisses with a taste of chocolate shake filled his head with impressions of cool autumn nights, and turned his muscles to pudding. It was a definite yes.

“You’re insane! My mother will kill me!” She sounded as if she might just sprout wings and take flight right there at the table. 

“I’ll win over that ol’ bat, yet, you just watch!” 

They kissed once more, and grazed each other cheeks and noses over and over, far too absorbed in one another to hear the teasing remarks of local high schoolers to “get a room”, or the scoffs of elderly couples that haven’t known such contact since that age.

“You’re absolutely insane!”

“Oh, I’m insane? Have you met yourself? A literal dream girl!”

Hand in hand, bounding for the car, a new life ahead of them and all. Work was difficult, but Rod was convinced he’d survive with this woman to come home to. It’s how he survived the rest of school, it’s how he survived his tours in France. She became a life line, between both this world and her mysterious realm she frequented and offered a peek into every so often. His promise of running off was still too distant to make a reality, but far closer than it was four years ago. 

They drove off through the desert. A small spark flashed on the horizon line and popped into a column of smoke. It barely made a pin prick in his vision, he kept his focus entirely on Emily’s radiance.  


	3. Chapter 3

April, 1954 - Philadelphia

 

“Can’t we give it away?”

“No, Emmett, we are not giving _him_ away. He’s your brother.”

“I don’t want a brother. He’s weird.”

Emily would laugh if she could pull together what remains of her energy, but the woman was utterly drained, and drifting, despite her oldest son’s attempts to keep her awake. Rod fixed his arms around his new son, and sat carefully in the wooden chair beside the bed. “Emmett, why don’t you head down stairs and help your grandmother cook?”

The boy huffed and marched out the door, which his father pushed closed behind him.

Though he didn’t want to agree with an aggravated six year old, there _was_ something slightly off with the infant he rested in his lap. He’d never accuse Emily of anything unsavory, not in his life, not after knowing her this long, and not after the agonizing day this has been for her, or the last couple of months of the pregnancy that had her hospitalized more than enough times to cause a panic that kept him from closing his eyes in bed, as if he didn’t already have trouble with that. Before, she’d be the one to console him and guard his mind from images of gunfire and dismembered bodies of comrades at his feet. Now, he’d have to listen to _her_ moans and rock her to distract from the pain in her abdomen.

He remembered her excessive glee over the news, and the family’s following move cross-country for better work opportunities, and something couldn’t help but itch that it was a mere mask, an insistence that this was all fine for her and everything would turn out in their favor. Emily’s joy was infectious, as many can attest to, so it should naturally keep her husband and son optimistic through two major changes in their lives, one of which very well had the whole family fearful of her death and the child she carried.

Hours and hours, bloodied bed sheets and Emily’s throat too sore to continue screaming, then finally, a pink and shrieking child passed from nurse to mother and father, like an exodus coming to an end at a quiet paradise. Pounds of stress alleviated at long last, but trickles of sand dropped back to his shoulders and dug under the shirt collar, taunting at the apparent happiness he’d found.

“Look at him,” his wife said weakly, “He has your eyes.”

He couldn’t see it, and he’s sure if Emily was being truthful, she’d agree.

The boy was far more Emily than anyone else in either of their bloodlines. Same ghostly complexion, same lengthy eyelashes, same charcoal hair, and given time, that round face all babies begin with would stretch out, tipped of with her same pointed chin and nose. Not even the conception particularly matched the last time they copulated, though that sort of thing could be fuzzy to track, down to a “T.”

All of this nagged Rod in the strangest ways, but the continued presence of his younger son, chest slowly rising and falling to a perfect rhythm, and his wife sleeping peacefully for the first time in months, advised him to accept this life as is, a lucky roll of the die and a glorious prize of the woman he loves and loves him in return, two healthy boys, a sturdy roof over their head, and a job that at least held chances to expand his horizons some time down the line. Rod gladly complied, and laid his son, Dale, down in his crib


	4. Chapter 4

December, 1967

 

An easy night in the shop, all orders came in nice and tidy, no arguments or customers moaning and groaning about something being the wrong font or off center, all falling into a perfect, mundane work day that allowed Rod to close up early and head home. Hot aromas of mashed potatoes, collard greens, and leftover Christmas turkey wafted out of the kitchen and smacked him right in the threshold of the front door. After a full afternoon and morning of fresh paper and wax chasing his senses, this was an ideal greeting. Creeping up behind his wife, heel-to-toe to dampen the clicks of his work shoes on the tile floor, then swiftly coiling around her waist and going to town on her neck.

“You know, you’re going to get yourself smacked some day, if you keep that up!” she squeaked.

“What? I like taking you by surprise. It gets a little irritating when you’re always one step ahead of me.” 

“Please, you can never surprise me.” She turned and planted her lips firmly to his. Smells of her crisp, delicious, and wonderfully seasoned cooking clung to her hair and brushed his face. The muffled babbles of a teenage boy broke through from upstairs. They both pulled away and chuckled.

“He adores that contraption you gave him.”

“Adores it? He’s practically  _ surgically fused _ it to himself.” 

Rod couldn’t deny that it brought a smile to his face knowing he made a huge difference in his son’s life just by proudly handing him a tape recorder and microphone on Christmas day. Dale constantly gave the notion that he was aching to blurt out every iota of information in his head, and it wasn’t that his father didn’t want to hear every syllable of the boy’s monologues, but he simply struggled to approach him or understand what swirled around in that skull of his. Emmett was an easier handle, but grew more private with age, which his parents passed as a symptom of every boy’s development. Emily, on the other hand, could slip into Dale’s world like a hand in a glove, and as Rod could guess, she already inhabited it, and her younger son inherited that same key to those cosmic gates. 

He had to ask if she was like that at his age.

“Well, yes, I suppose, but I didn’t have  _ you  _ as a parent to complain about it.”

Oh, he wasn’t complaining, he could assure her that, but with Emmett out of the house and not calling as often as his mother had begged him, and she and Dale in on a shared secret existing beyond human perception, a sinking feeling of abandonment entered Rod. His wife called him back with a gentle pat on the cheek. No matter, he had someone by his side to provide this insight, a newer perspective, and experience when their son grew more distant than they were comfortable with. 

Another chuckle came up, “That boy’ll make a damn fine journalist, something we desperately need in today’s media.”

Emily cleared the counter and moved the dishes over to the kitchen table, “No, I think he wants to be a law enforcer of some kind.”

“A law enforcer, eh? Now that I’d like to see.”

“Hush” She curled around him, “Whatever he’ll be, he will excel at it.” And met his lips once again.

An amazing wife, an amazing mother of his bizarre but amazing children. He’d proclaimed his thankfulness to himself, and to her, since the very beginning and he never thinks it’s enough. She makes certain that he gets the message and understands that it is. 


	5. Chapter 5

November, 1969

 

An empty house, an empty chair next to his, and an empty bed. Empty except for him, that is, but he felt as if every molecule was slowly leaving him and, he too, would soon cease to be. The doors she unlocked just for him to gaze through, the windows she drew open and hung her head out of to bask in her vast dominion of divine origin and intent, had been slammed shut and left everything sitting outside to shrivel and freeze. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and every bit in between, had to linger in radio silence. Rod had only his increasingly disheartening dreams to ponder over, and no waking world fulfilled by Emily’s luminous aura could chip away the pain, because it had withered away and fallen through his clutches like worthless powder. 

He’d squint and strain, claw at the boarded doors and windows in some futile act to restore those dead feelings, pull a little of her magic back into his life, and see like she could, instead only able to return with cut-up fists. He shambled from day to day, room to room, halfway between dream and reality, and deaf and blind to his younger son’s pleas, who was stuck inside the broken home with him. 

_ It’s left me, Emily. I can’t find it. _

Dale passed in and out of Rod’s mind, and Emmett barely made his presence known to the family any more. They’d all tried to cling to something earthly, but the matter dispersed into dust that choked them.

The moon emerged from hiding, fitting plainly within the window frame of the living room. Rod could swear he saw her dancing on its face.

_ She’d love it up there.  _


	6. Chapter 6

September, 1973

 

A settlement into routine proved better for Rod’s health than previously imagined. Everything grew too gray and stale like hardened porridge, so a slow stirr back into the swing of things softened the nauseating, lonesome days. Dale’s return to civilization certainly helped matters. He called, not on a frequent basis, but often enough to remind Rod that he still had some grounding to this plane of existence. Emmett may have all but dropped off of the face of the Earth, only to rear his head at the most random of times to say “Hello, Canada is fine.” 

Rod had more friends to keep him company and discuss matters with over coffee, and a new cause to drive him. Tyrannical politicians and one in the White House, all begging to have their names slandered on poster board. The jeers of young men and women protesting on capitol hill ignited something in Rod he hadn’t felt since his tours, and he couldn’t decide if he should roll with it, or save it up for when it’s needed most. It burned and burned, and sometimes he felt he’d burst into ash. He remembered Emily talking to him about something similar over toast and jam one morning, ages ago.

The whole of his reality pulled away farther and farther, but always fell back into his lap. Dale never followed suit. Though his calls were welcome, a distance developed in their voices and hearts. His son had seen and learned things Rod could never truly know of or comprehend, and a little part of him didn’t honestly want to. He resented that part. The secret world the boy and his mother shared went deeper than Rod ever imagined, and odds of reaching even the surface levels shrank for him. Or Dale had discovered a world beyond either his mother or father’s jurisdiction. Whichever, he wasn’t just Rod’s son anymore, he was a man on a mission. For what, neither of them know. Just that it yanks and yanks and doesn’t let go until it rips something out.


	7. Chapter 7

May, 1985 - Pittsburg

 

Wisps of raven hair tossed to each side of his head, white, cold, practically translucent skin, eyes sunken deep in their darkened sockets, tubes and wires running every which way, in and out of the frail man who looked more and more like a child with how much he dwindled in size under the layers of blankets, comforters, and pillows packed by his head.

And he was a child, to no one else but his father that sat attentively at his side, cupping one of his son’s hands and stroking his whitened face with the other. Monotonous tones of the ventilator hissing and weezing, the heart monitor signalling every uneven cycle of beats, and nurses and patients pattering up and down sterile halls would all be enough to drive the man out of the room and to the parking lot had this been anyone else on that bed. He tenderly ran his fingers across his son’s face, who looked older and more worse-for-ware than the actual senior citizen. Dale always reminded him of Emily, but today it was in the worst way. Too much like her, too much like her during those last remaining days, wilting like a rose on a frosted night. Rod wasn’t much of the type to pray, not being on good terms with the church and all, but just this once, he supposes it couldn’t hurt.

_Don’t take him yet, Emily. Not just yet._

Rod held a vague understanding of what happened: Dale and a woman found bleeding to death by a co-worker from the Bureau, more like a mentor, actually. A break-in. The woman, Caroline, dead before paramedics arrived, and the co-worker, her husband, in fact, gone practically insane. Rod couldn’t blame him for that.

His gut ached at the thought, and of course he would have prefered the _both_ of them making it out alive and well, but when he got down to it, he was at least grateful it was the woman, rather than his son, to have received the more fatal attack.

Slashed in the throat, not a pretty sight. Not a peaceful way to go. Rod’s seen it a number of times; the gurgling, the spitting, and the death rattle before the light finally leaves their glassy eyes. Hopefully, Dale was unconscious before that. He’d only told his father of Caroline in brief mentions here and there, but it was obvious from the way they found them that she was far more significant than Dale led on.

_Lord knows, the boy will be in for a tough time when he wakes up._

_If_ he wakes up.

No, he will wake up. He has his mother in him. The tenacity, the stamina, the perceptive abilities, all of it working harmoniously into his choice of career, a man of the FBI, and a good man at that. Nothing but words of kindness and honor from his higher-up, who took Rod off guard by his ludicrous speaking volume, but after a few moments out in the hall and reassurance that everything will be taken care of, walls collapsed and the two lightened the somber mood with casual conversation like old pals at a ballgame.

“YOUR SON IS REALLY SOMETHING, RODNEY! YOU MUST BE DAMN PROUD OF HIM!”

The secretary was also something to behold, neon hair and skin-tight clothes you’d see on a car hop waitress, but equally as approachable with her mellow, cool-to-the-touch attitude. She gave her condolences, and told accounts of Dale’s generosity towards her, both as a co-worker and a friend.

Then, there was the agent that had Rod pondering just how in the world he and Dale became partners, because even if Rod struggled to comprehend his son as an individual, he knew him well enough to know that everything Dale was, this agent wasn’t. Perhaps, at least, on the surface level. Agent Rosenfield, as he’s insisted to be referred to as despite “Albert” being the only name he’s answered to thus far in Rod’s presence, while acting unnaturally harsh towards hospital staff and law enforcers, can’t disguise his definite concern over his partner’s condition. With how much input he places on medicine and handling equipment, nearly getting himself tossed out for his insistence on how much anesthetic should be administered, Rod could speculate this man had a close eye on his son, in addition to the other protective associates. After a close call by one of the nurses, Rod found himself, in a rather peculiar and admittedly magical moment, offering a comforting attendance to the stressed agent.

“My kid means a lot to you, doesn’t he?”

“He is a fellow agent severely injured in a criminal act. My concern shouldn’t come off as unusual.”

_A real hard shell on that one._

Dale had built himself quite a support system, and may not be completely aware of it if Albert’s - presumably driven by affection - complaints meant anything. Rod had no reason not to believe their praise. They’d been with the boy in a different environment than he was given the chance to see, after all. Though, there was certainly the loss of two close souls in Dale’s life and career, Rod could trust that his son was in good hands. Dale would manage fine, he was sure on that. A survivor, like his mother, and in great company.


	8. Chapter

February, 1989

 

He’d gotten the call early morning during breakfast; some young girl in Washington murdered. “Absolutely horrific,” he told him, “What is this world coming to?”

“I know, Dad. I couldn’t agree more.” His son’s determination brewed plainly in his voice, “Listen, this is a matter of incredible importance. For the next few weeks, or however long it will take, this case is my top priority, so I hope you will understand if I don’t call during that time.”

“I do, Dale. No need to worry about me. Just do your job. And send me a postcard, would you?”

“I will. Wish me luck!”

Not a single doubt on Rod’s mind that his boy wouldn’t be able to wrap up things in a tidy bow over in… whatever town he’d been summoned to. 

_ Twin Peaks… I’ve heard it has a lovely mountain view. _

And Dale had a known infatuation with nature, ever since he began his long expeditions in his teen years. Gone for hours… once, even days.

_ Oh, yes, he’ll adore it out there. _

Rod had offered Dale to borrow his Kodak and atlas, incase he wanted to go hiking or perusing around the area for lost treasures of decades past, to which he responded “Thank you, but it’s not needed,” and, “I can buy my own.” He recalled something about the town not being too far a trip from the Canadian border, and considered calling back Dale to ask him if he could try checking up on his older brother, not realizing Emmett was likely nowhere in that general region. Or maybe even the country, anymore.

_ It’s been so long… I bet he’d forgotten my number.  _

He still had Emmett’s phone number pinned up on the fridge, but no one picks up to answer. He’d guess that he was simply putting it in wrong, however, then he couldn’t remember what digit was off and what to replace it with. And now he had to trust Dale to send some signal once all was settled out there in a little town too small to show up on a map. It’d be a worrisome period of time, but he’s made it through worse. Far worse

Instead, Rod focused on congratulating his son for bringing justice to a mourning family and a person’s life that ended too soon, and potentially preventing the future carnage of a mad man. He could gloat about Dale’s victory to friends at the bar and customers that never asked in the first place. He’d be able to sleep knowing there was a man out there making society safer, a man he and Emily raised, a man with Emily’s fire and love. Just what the world needed. 

_ “For the next few weeks…” _

With all of that in mind, he gladly waits.


	9. Chapter 9

1990

 

1994

 

1998

 

2001

 

2003

 

The Earth had grown too sour for him, too sick  _ of  _ him. There was no place in a country for an old man like this. Disaster after disaster, news stations became predictable. He could go on about the tragedy, the disappointment, had he the strength and the audience, but at this point his words slurred and scrambled to white noise in his mouth and head. He bet they all thought he was pathetic. He knew they did.

Mobility diminished to a slow hobble only aided with a walker, eyesight hazy, taste barely clinging, his hands turned to melting butter and smell still fairly decent except on certain days. He has yet to detect a pattern in that. The hearing persists, however, and he wishes it would just give up and disappear already if it meant muting those apologise, those prayers, those empty promises. 

“I’m sorry about your son.”

Every day. Without fail.

“We’re closing in on a lead, Mr. Cooper. I can feel it!”

Agent Rosenfield, ever the optimist, something he never thought he’d say to himself, hung onto the case with a stubborn grip that even “no-indoor-voice” Gordon Cole had to comment was getting to be a bit much, and the lovely loyal secretary, Diane, walked away in silence. Albert wasn’t alone, though. Dale had met and worked with a Sheriff in Twin Peaks and apparently forged a sort of bond that Rod could sense a mile away. A kind man, not much different than Dale in that regard, named Harry Truman, who carried a great deal of pain on his back and set out beside Albert on that quest. But as time passed, that pain piled and piled up, eventually pushing him to settle into a similar position as Rod, while Albert continued to press deeper and deeper into the wound. 

“Please, Agent Rosenfield, my son is gone. I’ve let him go. You should do the same.”

As expected, he was met with a sympathetic rejection of the advise. But if he had to be honest, he didn’t let go. He couldn’t. No body, no warning, nothing to go on or gain closure from. Only reports of off-beat behavior after a time of hardship thanks to old sores resurfacing, as told by Gordon, Albert, and Harry. Then… into air. Local law enforcement and FBI working hand in hand to gain the tiniest scrap of a hint, and nothing to show for it. At least he knew people were looking. At least his boy wasn’t being left to history without a fight.

He has, begrudgingly, made peace with the more undesirable scenarios, as they’d conclude with Dale rejoining his mother, perhaps in their hidden domain of cosmic wonder. He could live with that, however much longer that would be. But, the nearer Rod drew to his perceived end, that peace of mind faded, slowly, and replacing it with an awareness of something he could only describe as “incorrect.” 

Wrong. Disgustingly wrong.

Through all of Rod’s life, his intuition was not exactly up to par, especially when compared to his wife and youngest son, but this could not go ignored any longer. 

Electricity in his bones, in his heart, his head and eyes, scratching and jabbering a ghastly truth: Dale was indeed alive, but he was not “of this world” any longer, and wherever he was, it was not with Emily. 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic spans across Dale's life prior to the start of the series and ends taking place after the events of season 2, with a hint at The Return at the beginning.
> 
> Edit: I changed Emmett's age in chapter 3 from eight years old to six. Silly me got the math wrong.


End file.
